As if the situation wasn’t bad enough, Darcy has the added humiliation of pictures. A forever memorial to a horrific night.
“Do the pictures provide any insight?”
“Not in terms of who might have hurt her,” she says. “Although they clearly show she wasn’t in her right mind. I question the moral fiber of anyone who would take pictures of someone in that state and pass it around for entertainment.”
“You’re right,” I say, leaning forward against her desk. “How did you get involved?”
“Her mother called me Sunday morning and wanted me to visit with them once they returned from the hospital. She thought talking to someone other than her parents or doctors might help.”
“What are the police saying?”
“There’s not much they can do if Darcy can’t explain what happened. And our only witnesses are a bunch of drunk teenagers who are afraid of getting grounded for being at a party to begin with.”
“I can’t imagine how scary it all must have been for her.” I close my eyes tight, trying hard not to imagine. I’ve done this before. Imagined another person’s pain. Imagined another person’s fear.
“Darcy needs time to process everything. Plus, her leg needs to heal.” Pam bends her leg around the side of the desk and shows me where the cut was. “There are three eight-inch gashes on her left thigh. If they’d been any deeper, she might have bled out.”
What if the police hadn’t arrived in time? I’m not sure anyone, even Darcy, appreciates the danger she faced that night. “This isn’t some party gone wrong. The girl was deliberately attacked.”
“Problem is Darcy can’t or won’t remember anything.” She looks down. “I don’t know if we’ll ever know what really happened.”
I can’t relate to what Darcy has been through, but I understand her reaction. Darcy wants to blink it away. When bad things happen, it’s easier to pretend they didn’t. Acknowledging the bad things gives them power, extends their shelf life. I’m still ignoring the bad things I went through. When I think of Darcy and what she’s endured, I’m infuriated. She deserves more than this. It’s like her struggle is bringing my own past back to life.
Ten
Winter 2003
I sat in the back of the gymnasium flipping through the color-coded sections of my notebook. Now that I was in high school, this was my routine while Brian attended basketball practice. I plugged in my iPod and worked diligently at trying to grasp my freshman year curriculum. I wasn’t like Brian. He barely studied and still managed to pull A’s in all his Honors classes. If he wasn’t reminding me of this, Mom was; it made my 3.0 in standard classes seem like a disappointment.
Of course, Brian didn’t only excel academically. He’d made a name for himself on the basketball team, too. His popularity helped me adjust during the first semester of high school. To all the upperclassmen and teachers, I was Brian’s kid sister. Amber, my permanent sidekick, benefited from the celebrity, too, and enjoyed it more than I did. Because while everyone at Wilsonville High thought Brian was great, I still saw his unlikeable characteristics.
It was five o’clock when practice ended. I stood by the bleachers, waiting for Brian’s teammates to swagger past me.
“Hey, Baby B.” It was Coach Lawson, a tall, husky forty-something whose hair was beginning to thin atop his head. He was Brian’s head coach and my history teacher. I hated my nickname, even though I knew Lawson only created them for his favorite students. As almost everyone else did in Wilsonville, he liked me because of my connection to Brian, his great athlete.
“Afternoon, Coach,” I said.
Brian approached, bumping Lawson’s shoulder.
“Good work today,” Lawson said to Brian. “Between you and some of the fresh meat, I think we might have a shot at regionals this year.”
“You know it, Coach.”
We made our way to the student parking lot. I walked a few steps behind as Brian chatted with his teammates. When we entered the car and the door shut, he slammed his fists against the steering wheel.
“What a crock,” he said. He often spewed anger, almost like I wasn’t even there.
“What’s wrong?” There always seemed to be something wrong, despite the fact Brian had life rather easy.
“You were there,” he said, stabbing the key into the ignition. “That little punk wouldn’t stop blocking my shot.”
“What little punk?”
“You come to my practice every day, Della. You expect me to believe you don’t watch what happens?”
I came to his practices because I had no other choice. Mom wasn’t going to interrupt her schedule to pick me up, and Dad didn’t leave the office until after five.
“I was doing homework.”
“Yeah.” He laughed as he put the car into drive. “You need all the help you can get with that.”
“Brian!” It didn’t matter that someone else had gotten under his skin. He always directed his insults toward me.
“Well, if you’d been paying attention, you’d see that little punk Logan Hunt blocking me at every turn.” He pressed harder on the gas. “It’s like he forgets we’re on the same team.”
I didn’t know why this was so offensive, but Brian was aggravated. I knew Logan Hunt, too. We had freshman English together.
“Isn’t that the point of practice?” I asked. “Trying out new plays? Preparing for games?”
“Yeah, but he gets carried away with it. Kid’s a freshman. He’s trying to make a name for himself by stopping a top player. Not going to happen.”
It wasn’t like Brian was in jeopardy of losing his position. He’d been in the starting five since his sophomore year. In fact, he’d been the Logan Hunt of his freshman year, picking off the upperclassmen and taking their spots.
He turned into our neighborhood screeching tires, forcing me to lurch forward.
“Slow down, Brian. We’re on our road now.”
He revved up the engine, then slammed the brakes as he pulled up to our garage.
“I don’t need driving advice from a little bitch like you,” he said.
He exited the car and slammed the door,
